Suspicious Minds

Chapter Eighteen

“Why did Peter do it?” asked Valerie.

They were together on the sofa in her Crosby flat. A candle’s unsteady light cast strange shadows across the room. After a Mexican meal washed down with plenty of wine, Harry’s mood was mellow. He hoped for once in his life he might end the night feeling more like Warren Beatty than Woody Allen.

He found it hard to believe that only twenty-four hours had passed since the bizarre events at Prospect House. The discovery of Kuiper’s cache of contaminated foodstuffs and of the other woman whose existence Jack Stirrup had kept so quiet. Explanations seemed to Harry to have lasted half the night before Swarbrook was willing to let him crawl home to bed. And even then, much had been left unexplained.

How much better it was to be here with Valerie. She was curled up beside him, her pale green frock revealing much more than it concealed, her Giorgio fragrance deepening the intoxication of the moment. All evening they had talked of things other than Peter Kuiper’s arrest and Jack Stirrup’s embarrassment. The conversation had ranged from sixties music and Entertaining Mr. Sloane to Jim Thompson’s books and Chandler’s screenplay for Double Indemnity, while sixties love songs played in the background. Now Harry was relaxed and ready to tell her about the previous evening, for the only taboo tonight was talk of going home.

“He had at least a hundred thousand reasons. You can do a lot with the kind of ransom he was after. All the same, I don’t believe the money was everything to Peter.”

“What else, then? The lure of living dangerously?”

“If you like. He wanted to put himself beyond the law. Above it. Remember Rope?”

She nodded. Her love of Hitchcock movies exceeded even his. He slipped an arm round her bare shoulder.

“Or its true life equivalent, the Leopold and Loeb case? Peter reminds me a little of what’s his name, Nathan Leopold. The clever student who felt superior to the outside world and turned to crime to prove it.”

“Nietzsche has a lot to answer for.”

“Doesn’t he play in goal for Bayern Munich? Anyway, Peter had the perfect help-mate in Claire Stirrup. A young girl, intelligent enough but naive, adoring and eager to share in whatever scheme her boyfriend-who-could-do-no-wrong might dream up. An experiment in blackmail which promised a small fortune as well as the thrill of teenage rebellion was simply too much to resist.”

Valerie moved her face close to his. “Folie a deux. Where two people share the same delusion.”

“Folly is right,” he said.

He looked into her eyes, trying to read what was in her mind. His fingers traced an invisible pattern on the smooth skin of her shoulder. He had never possessed the gift granted to so many other men of being able to slip at will into slickly seductive chat whenever a woman gave the slightest encouragement. The sexy lines refused to spring to his lips.

She shifted her position, sitting more upright. He left his hand where it was, just resting on her, not venturing further. The memory came to him of back-row fumblings in the Odeon years of his youth. Mistakes he would not repeat again.

“Have you spoken to Quentin Pike today?” she asked.

“Called him this afternoon. Swarbrook’s given Peter a hard time. Serve the young bugger right. Anyway, the top and bottom of it is that no one can pin Claire’s killing on him. He’s adamant he didn’t see her on Friday and no one can prove otherwise. He reckons she seemed excited on the phone, but he put that down to his news that Saviour Money had agreed to cough up the ransom demand.”

“Daddy tells me that Friday was when he finally bowed to the blackmail threat.”

“So I gather. I don’t know how they communicated with Peter. He kept phoning from different call boxes, I suppose. Your father probably told you, the company put a down payment in a building society account which the lad had opened in a false name.”

Harry refilled their glasses. “Peter’s idea was to make random withdrawals from hole-in-the-wall cash dispensers. The police couldn’t mount a round-the-clock surveillance of every single one. Or so he assumed. Anyway, he made the first three withdrawals on Saturday. First in Freshfield, then St. Helens, finally at Ellesmere Port. Quite a distance apart, even for a biker who sees a speed limit as a challenge to his virility.”

“So he didn’t have an opportunity to meet Claire on Saturday morning?”

“On the basis of the timings, Quentin’s sure Peter couldn’t have abducted her before he turned up at Prospect House. And after Jack and I told him his girlfriend had vanished, he says he panicked. Dumped the cash in a night safe then skulked out of sight, hoping to hear from Claire. Convincing the police is another matter, but there isn’t a shred of forensic to link him to the murder.”

Valerie placed a honey-coloured hand on his and began to stroke.

“He must have been petrified that if detectives started sniffing round they’d uncover the blackmail plan. Even if they found Claire alive and well but simply put her under pressure with their questions.”

“It’s the criminal’s nightmare,” said Harry, content to keep the conversation going, at least for the moment. “To become caught up in someone else’s crime.”

“So the plot thickens. If Claire intended to meet someone on Saturday morning, and that someone wasn’t Peter Kuiper, who was too busy collecting his ill-gotten gains — what was she up to?”

“No idea. Of course the library books may be a red herring. Suppose she simply forgot them? Realised what she’d done and decided to walk back home. It was a sunny day, she may have fancied the exercise. Suppose she caught the eye of The Beast…”

“You think that’s what happened?”

“No one’s come up with a better idea yet. Of course Jack’s still howling for Peter Kuiper to be charged with her death.”

“And when he pauses for breath, how does he explain bringing a new lady friend home the night after his daughter was murdered?”

“Not so new, I suspect. Jack and I had a long conversation this morning. Plenty of bluster, as you might expect. The woman’s name is Rita Buxton and she manages his branch at Heswall. Divorced, mid-thirties. According to Jack, she’s been a comfort since Alison disappeared.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Valerie satirically.

“Trouble is, my memory’s better than Jack gives me credit for. Rita Buxton’s name came up at the time Trevor Morgan was sacked. He had a brief fling with her a couple of years ago, as I recall. Sounds like a lady who believes in keeping the management satisfied, never mind the customers.”

“So Stirrup has known for some time she was available?”

“Cynic. But yes, you’re right. He’s adamant they haven’t been sleeping together, before or after Alison disappeared. I’d find it as easy to believe Trevor Morgan had gone teetotal. Jack says he needed to be with someone after he learned about Claire. Fair enough, but…”

“Not the behaviour of a worried husband?”

“Exactly. So much has happened lately, it’s easy to forget Alison is still missing. You can bet Doreen Capstick will be telling Bolus I-told-you-so as soon as she gets to hear that Jack really does have a bit on the side.”

“Together with a motive for losing his wife?”

“Two and two occasionally make four,” Harry admitted. “I pressed him again today. Jack insists he doesn’t know what has happened to Alison.”

“And you accept that?”

“What choice do I have? I’m sure he’s not telling me the whole truth, but there’s still no evidence to suggest he’s done Alison any harm. Maybe she found out about Rita and did a runner. Jack may be as baffled as the rest of us.”

Valerie’s nails glided along the back of his hand. His whole body began to tingle with anticipation.

“I don’t like much of what I’ve heard about your client, but I can’t help sympathising with him. For Peter Kuiper to use his house as HQ for major crime as well as seducing his daughter was adding insult to injury. And on top of that, the girl’s been savagely killed.”

“Claire’s death still hasn’t sunk in properly yet. Perhaps it never will. Peter may have been right when he said she was devoted to him, but Jack couldn’t have loved her any more. If he never finds out for sure that Peter was screwing the girl, so much the better.”

“So you think it’s healthier to live a lie than to face up to the truth?”

Her manner was pensive. The question seemed to have a special, unfathomable meaning for her.

He put his cheek against hers. “No, I don’t. It’s less painful, though.”

“You couldn’t do it yourself, Harry. Kid yourself forever, believe in an illusion. You’re not made that way; you’re too inquisitive, not prepared to take things at face value. On trust.”

You didn’t know me when I was married to Liz, he felt like saying.

“One thing I don’t kid myself about — that what is right for me is right for my clients, for everyone else.”

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s important to trust those we care about, to have faith in them, come what may. Perhaps it’s the most important thing of all.”

She paused, then opened her mouth as if to add something else. He had the impression for a second that she was going to impart a confidence. But the moment passed and she folded her lips together again in a sad smile of mingled affection and regret. He wished he knew what she thought about him.

Squeezing her shoulder gently he said, “Would you like to go to bed?”

He had meant to hide how nervous he felt but the croakiness of his voice was a giveaway. The question seemed to wash over her like the tide. He held his breath as he waited for her answer. She seemed to choose it with care.

“I don’t believe in getting too serious too soon, Harry.”

“Are you saying no?”

“I’m saying yes. I simply wanted you to know how I feel.”

He kissed her on the lips. “You bet I want to know how you feel.”

And then he took her by the hand and led her to the narrow bed in the room next door.